


Tale as Old as Thyme

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Bedelia as an evil wiitch, Bedelia as the sorcerer, But lots of people are assholes, Chilton as Gaston, Chilton is an ass, Food Puns, Foster Dad Will Graham, Franklyn as Lumiere, Gen, Hannibal as the Beast, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal is still a person, I APOLOGIZE, Inspired by Beauty and the Beast, Inspired by the new movie, M/M, Mob psychology, Nightmare Stag is still a thing, Psychiatrist Hannibal, Surprisingly Dramatic, This is ridiculous, Violence, Will as Belle, Will include both show and movie references, Will is adorable, kid Abigail Hobbs, no one is a cannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-09 13:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10413465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: Will Graham is doing what he always does: his best. Trying to be a good professor, a good profiler, a good dad. But fate always seem to work against him; why would now be any exception?Beauty and Beast-ish AU. Go see the new movie, I swear its amazing.





	1. A Walk in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read, I hope you enjoy this little spin on a couple of classics. Inspiration came since I've seen the new movie twice and finally got my Will Graham POP! figure this morning. Please R and R, let me know what you think :)

“Abigail!” She was too young to be wondering around on her own, but he supposed it was his fault for not watching her more closely. She had been through more than most young children and liked to be alone far more than she enjoyed Will’s company. That didn’t mean she could go running through the woods on her own, especially when it was near dark and starting to get cold. “Come back!”

His voice as hoarse from yelling, and the small dog at his feet was beginning to rub more and more against his legs in earnest as the wind began to bite with more ferocity and Will’s feet found their way to unfamiliar territory. This was rapidly becoming the weekend from Hell, and Abigail was making nothing easier.

He walked a bit faster, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. He had never been this far out into the woods near his home, and he was definitely regretting the idea of bringing Abigail out for a week-long fishing and camping excursion to help them bond. He had even made a point to tell everyone at work and in his social circles, mostly to avoid the near constant contact from a certain psychiatrist, but also so that they would know he was at least trying to be a good parent. The pointed looks he had been getting more and more frequently from Alana Bloom and her wife were starting to drive him mad. He was sorry that not everyone could afford to work such flexible hours or not all and lavish their children with everything they could fathom, but he was doing his best, and he wanted them to at least stop hounding him for what they saw as questionable decisions.

“Please, Abigail.” He whispered, practically to himself. His breath was clouding in front of him, thickening almost into ice. He could hear the sounds of wild animals, wishing he had thought to bring his gun, and instead trying to focus his mind elsewhere. He had never been scared of animals, though never particularly fond of the deer that filled the woods, but he didn’t want to think of them coming up behind him in the dark either.

The path changed, becoming a bit more overgrown as he marched forward and he was starting to wonder if Abigail had even come this way at all. It was difficult for him, it would have been near impossible for an eight year old to make it through this. He started calling again, little Custer sniffing along the ground until his nose got too cold to continue. His day, though stressful, had been vaguely uneventful until he had looked up to see Abigail missing from the fire where he was cooking the fish they had caught. He had heard her laughing, and followed her into the woods.

But that, this, had almost been relaxing compared to his morning. His work with the Bureau was slowly eating away at his patience. He had been in the field almost every day over the past week, away from his classroom and his books and his work, and had instead found himself in the near constant company of a certain Frederick Chilton who considered himself a expert on the certain brand of sickos they were dealing with. Men like Abigail’s father, who, the year before, had finally been caught thanks to Will’s work, and killed before he had the chance to make Abigail one of his victims. She had come to live with Will full time nearly three months ago, after he had finally been cleared as her guardian. His guilt over being involved in her actual father’s death was assuaged. At least, until now, when she was wondering by herself at night and he was hopelessly following after her.

Chilton had practically latched himself to Will, who despised everything about him. From his fancy suits that were slightly off-tailored, to his strange cane that he insisted on bringing to every crime scene, to his overly forward flirting that had both no effect on Will and made him cringe. Every conversation he tried to have with Chilton, usually revolving around serial killers but even occasionally the news or a book Will had been enjoying, always ended up with Chilton talking about some award he had one, or his flashy house, or how he would enjoy showing Will what fine dine actually consisted of while he would rake his eyes over Will’s casually dressed form with both appreciation and distaste. Will despised him, and he wasn’t the only one.

Jack Crawford, the man responsible for Will’s heavy involvement with the Bureau, also didn’t care for Chilton, though he was much better at hiding it. Will actually wasn’t sure who Jack did care for, with the exception of his wife, but Will was still grateful when Jack would cut Chilton’s words short because he didn’t mind interrupting the verbose doctor. Alana and Margot didn’t care for him either, and Alana was of the opinion that Chilton had only gone into psychiatry to avoid the inevitable malpractice suit that would come should he remain a surgeon.

The wind changed to a low whistling, and in the darkness around him, every sound was becoming seemingly louder, his nerves more and more on edge. But along that same vein, the path under his feet changed again, practically clearing as though it had been paved. He almost paused, but remembered his mission, Abigail’s small face clear in his mind, and kept marching.

It wasn’t long until the trees cleared also and he came to a gate, grown over with ivy that curled with small flowers despite the frost that laid over the gate. He looked beyond it, not seeing Abigail, but instead the front of an incredible house, covered by the shadows of trees. He look dup, not realizing there could ever be a person who lived so far out here in the woods. But now that he looked closer, he couldn’t see any lights on in the house either.

“It must be abandoned.” He turned to leave, but had to let out a sigh when, upon closer inspection, he saw small footprints beyond the gate. Abigail. He pushed the gate open with a loud creak, fighting back against the ice that was thickening on its hinges. “Abigail!” he yelled again, stepping into what looked like it would be a magnificent rose garden come spring, but for now was covered in frost like an odd set of thorny silhouettes, a white bridge that was grown with the same ivy and white flowers as the gate, everything entirely still in the moonlight. The water was still as well, but in the moon it looked more black than clear, and Will swallowed, the abandoned feel of this place starting to get to him.

He stepped up to the door, lifting a heavy bronze knocker, but before it could fall, the door swung open.

“Oh,” He said, “Thank you, I----“ Then he realized he was speaking to no one. “Hello?”

He stepped in, looking for signs of Abigail, seeing a flickering light coming from another room. “Hello?” He asked again, a chill running up his spine.

“Look there, what if he is the one?” He heard a voice behind him, a happy, optimistic voice. HE whipped around, seeing nothing but furniture.

“Abigail?” He called, his brain incapable of forming other thoughts at the moment. “Abigail, are you in here?”

He steeled his nerves, deciding the voice was certainly a figment of his imagination, and stepped through the parlor, following the light. He could smell what he was certain was coffee, and perhaps a hint of cookies on the air, and he let the warmth of the house come over his body, helping to settle him despite his anxiety of being in someone else’s house, with a missing child, in the middle of the night.

He walked through the hallway, adorned with pictures of people Will had never seen before, all looking out from old pictures with slight frowns on their faces. On one, the frame was cracked and shattered over what Will could see had been the portrait of a man, but the picture was torn with the glass, and Will could see nothing of what it had once held.

“Abigail?” But there was still no answer. “Anyone?” He let out a huff. “I’m sorry for coming into your house, I’m looking for my daughter…”

“Papa Will!” A familiar voice flooded him with relief, his muscles relaxing.

“Abigail!” He said, and took a step forward to where she was seated by a large fire in a brilliant stone fireplace, chewing on a chocolate chip cookie that was balled in her fist. But the wind left his lungs in a rush as a pair of hard arms wrapped around him, one closing over his mouth, the other pinning his arms to his body.

“Who are you?” A voice, with a touch of a foreign accent, came harshly in his ear. “Did she send you?”

“Who?” Will sputtered through the hand that was making it hard to breath. “Please, my daughter.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” And he kept his eyes on Abigail’s terrified ones as whoever had a hold of him began to pull him back, back towards the hallway, back away from his daughter. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to trespass.” The hand left his mouth and instead moved to his back, pressing him forward. “I only followed Abigail, I didn’t realize anyone lived out here. We’ll leave.”

“Leave?” The voice in his ear was surprised. “I think not.”

“What?” But Will could do nothing against the grip the stranger had him in as he was pushed through the parlor, down another hall. “Please, I haven’t taken anything. I won’t call the police…”

“No one is leaving.” The voice said again, more tired than angry sounding, but the grip remained firm. “You will stay in here.” A rough shove and Will was stumbling into a sparsely furnished bedroom with no windows. A bed, a chair, a dresser, a mirror.

He turned on his side, the panic real in his chest, as he heard the door click behind him and heavy footsteps headed down the hall. “Please!” He yelled, standing and banging on the door. “Abigail!” But his cries were met with only silence.


	2. A Shared Delusion

He said on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped together, arms resting on his knees. He needed a way out. No cell reception all the way out here, he had already checked; no windows. The door was sturdy, nothing to break it down with in this room. He began tapping his feet restlessly to stave off the panic of his situation, slowly realizing the gravity of the situation they were in. He had no idea where his daughter was, or what she was doing. He did not know who held him here. He was certainly he had not been imagining things in the lobby either, and the voices he heard were not the same voice of the man who had brought him in here.

Additionally, he had realized that no one expected to hear from him for at least a week. A damn lot of good that having FBI connections did you when they didn’t know to come knocking. If Margot and Alana had issues with his parenting skills before, they would certainly have a lot to say now. He was half considering trying to break apart the bed frame and smash through the door with the pieces when It swung open.

“Hey!” He said, unable to keep the anger from his voice, but realized that there was no person standing there. Not his captor, not his daughter, only a shade-less lamp, one he had a vague memory of from the lobby. He looked at it, looking around for what might have caused the door to open, deciding not to question it and instead stepping through the frame.

He steeled his nerves, watching for signs of Abigail or an escape route and finding neither, deciding it was worth his chance. He poised himself to run, sucking in a deep breath to calm his nerves. “The Doctor requests your presence at dinner!” Will nearly jumped out of his flannel at the voice, a cheerful, overly optimistic sounding voice. Definitely not the one belonging to whomever had forced him in here.

“Who said that?” he whipped around to the see the lamp peering back at him, the ceramic formed into a face, its squat base vaguely the shape of a person. Its bulb was lit at the moment, glowing brightly despite the fact that there was no cord attached to it anywhere.

“It was me of course!” The lamp said, stepping forward as if Will should follow him down the hall, waving its hand. “My name is Franklyn, and the Doctor is expecting you of course.”

Will stood stone still, shaking his head. He had undoubtedly seen some strange things in his time at the Bureau, gruesome murders, shared delusions, a man who thought Lucifer himself was feeding off of his neighbors life force, but this talking, walking, very pleasant lamp had to be the icing on the cake.

“You are a lamp.” He said, and Franklyn turned again, letting out a small laugh.

“And you are a person. And people such as yourself need food, which the Doctor has prepared himself.” Franklyn said, waving again so that Will might follow. “We don’t want to be late, best to keep appointments as best you can. It’s just polite.” It might have been a backhanded comment, but this lamp seemed to mean it only jovially.

He ignored the fact that he was most likely hallucinating or had been drugged, and instead followed a lamp through the hall.

“So this Doctor is keeping us here?”

“You’ll have to forgive him, some things have been happened. He’s a wonderful man, really, Chiyoh can tell you, he’s tried to help all of us.” Franklyn started humming as he led Will down an unfamiliar hallway, another decorated with pictures. “It’s really terrible what’s happened to him. Unfair, unfair, unfair.”

Will couldn’t repress a soft sigh, despite the fact that he still believed himself to be hallucinating, he couldn’t deal with the somewhat obnoxious musings of this lamp, who was now clikering his light, seemingly for his own entertainment.

“Isn’t it a bit late for dinner?” Will asked finally, if only so Franklyn might stop humming, following him into a wide room, the smell of what promised to be a delicious meal floating through the unlit rooms of the mansion they were in.

“When the little girl arrived, the Doctor insisted on making something up. When you showed up a little while after, we all had to agree.”

“So, he locks me in a room and expects me to eat dinner with him regardless?” Will couldn’t keep the angered annoyance from him tone. The audacity of this person, whoever they were, was incredible. And he still wasn’t convinced they weren’t in the home of some maniac. After all, who else would choose to live so far out in the woods, alone, with only their apparently talking furniture for company?

Franklyn turned to him, looking as sheepish as a lamp could manage, Will supposed. “The Docotr is strange sometimes, but he means well. I’m sure he only thought you might try to leave without dinner, or wonder out into the woods and be injured by some of the wild animals.” Franklyn turned again. “The woods are not safe this late at night, you know. You and the little girl are the first to make it as far as the house, most are either hunters who are turned away by the threat of real danger, or else people who are lost and get turned around long before they get here. Although, the Doctor used to have plenty of visitors.” For once, Franklyn’s never ceasing talking took on a sad tone, and Will frowned in spite of himself. This story was becoming stranger as time passed, extending well beyond the talking lamp.

But before he could ask questions, Franklyn led him to a small parlor. “In there is the kitchen and dining room, your daughter is already there.” He said, and spun around. “Welcome to our home!” And he turned and sauntered away, his ceramic legs scraping together in a strange noise.

He let out a breath, and pushed open the door Franklyn has indicated. The smell that had been coming through the door and wafting through the house was now almost overwhelming. His stomach growled, and he realized that the last thing he had eaten had been a tin of shredded beef jerky when he and Abigail had first made camp. This, despite the fact that Will loved beef jerky, smelled much better.

He didn’t see a sign of any person however, instead looking around at what had to be the nicest kitchen he had ever been in, and he had worked as a waiter during college. There were at least four ovens, all shining with the look of having been recently cleaned. Two large sinks, an island covered with an array of knives that gleamed at the handles from the blocks they were in. He could feel the heat still radiating off one of two large stoves, but it seemed that his potential dinner companions had already moved into the dining room.

“Abigail?” He said, pushing through a large, beautiful wooden door into a dining room that again had to the nicest one that he had been in. His eyes immediately went to Abigail, who was looking at her plate with what looked like a cut of spiced pork loin and a small salad, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Papa Will!” She said, looking up and smiling, her missing tooth making her smile all the more endearing. “You’re late for dinner!”

“Franklyn escorted you then.” His blood ran cold at the sound of a familiar voice. He looked to the other end of the table, past the setting of what was indeed a pork loin, to finally see what his captor might look like. “I am afraid Franklyn is frequently late or annoyingly early.” Will stared. “Would you like red wine, or white with your dinner?”

“Papa Will?” But it seemed to Will that he had frozen in this instant, both captivated and terrified by the man at the end of the table. A familiar looking man, one that he couldn’t quite place but that was sending irrevocable amounts of fear through his body. His instinct was to run, every bit of his body full of adrenaline all of a sudden.

“Red, then.” The man said, and stood, stepping to Will with his fingers on the stem of a wine glass. His dark eyes glittered at Will, who took the wine and sat down because he didn’t trust his legs to hold him up any longer.

Who was this man? Why did he know that face so well? He took a deep drag of the wine and closed his eyes, trying to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmm, how does Will known Hannibal? What happened to Franklyn and Chiyoh and Hannibal and others? what's going on there? Hope you all are enjoying, please R and R, let me know what you think :) Thanks to those who have read!


	3. Chapter 3

“You must forgive my earlier manners, Mr. Graham. We have not had visitors often, and I was concerned for your safety.” The man poured Will’s wine quickly, taking the time to allow it to aerate into his glass. Will remained standing for a moment longer than he knew he should have, and the man’s lips flicked downward into a small frown before he moved back.

“You locked me in a room.” Will finally said, taking a seat after the man’s dark stare remained fixed on him over his meal, “How is that contributing to my safety?”

The man looked at him for a long moment, and Will thought for a moment he could see a flash of guilt across the man’s carefully shaped features. But he said nothing and instead chose to take a bite of whatever dish he had prepared in front of them. “I know you.” Will said finally, shifting unconsciously away from the man. “Who are you? Where do I know you?”

“I am a psychiatrist...” He started.

“With a talking lamp?” Will laughed, and Abigail gave a small giggle. “It seems there’s quite a bit of crazy going on then.”

“Franklyn is a patient of mine.” The man said, setting down his fork and leaning back in his chair, clearly unhappy at having been interrupted.

“Franklyn is a lamp.” Will couldn’t keep the anger of his tone now. He was tired of this already. It had been a long day, not to mention the things that had happened since Abigail had disappeared. This man had taken him captive, taken his daughter captive as well, stranded them in a strange house and trapped him a strange room, and now had the audacity to apologize. And then had the further consternation to make it seem as though everything that occurred had been perfectly natural and the appliance that had escorted him to dinner was an ordinary occurrence.

“There are a number of things which you are yet to understand, Mr. Graham.”  The man said. “But to further answer your original question, my name is Hannibal Lecter, I am a doctor.”

Hannibal Lecter. He knew that name. It shot fear through him as much as his first sight of this man had, but he could not place it. It was infuriating, as infuriating as this situation. But he kept silent.

“This is my home and what used to be my practice.” Hannibal had picked his fork up again, as well as his knife. Will looked down at his pork loin, his stomach growling. He was amazed Abigail was eating hers since the only thing she ever seemed to eat was chicken nuggets of can of shredded beef jerky.

“You seem a bit young to be retired.” The man gave a soft smile despite the fact that he was chewing slowly on a bite.

“I am not retired.” He said finally, after washing down his food with a long sip of wine. “As I said, Mr. Graham, there are many things you are yet to understand.”

“Explain them to me then.” Hannibal Lecter leaned back, not taking his eyes off of Will for a second longer than possible. Again, that deep stare ran a hard shudder through him.

“Now is not the time.” There was hard note to his voice, as if he was angry, though his eyes gave away nothing. “It will all be explained to you in due course.”

“We aren’t saying here.” Will stood swiftly, putting his hand on Abigail, the rich food forgotten. “You can’t keep us here, Doctor.” He practically spit the title from his mouth.

Hannibal did not seem particularly bothered by Will’s reaction, or his tone, choosing instead to take another sip of wine before speaking, that same hard note still present in his voice. “It is the middle of the night, Mr. Graham. You are unarmed, and despite how well you think you may know these woods, you are not safe on your own outside these walls.”

Will stared at him, trying desperately to hear a hint of a joke, to hear something in Hannibal’s voice that might indicate he was joking, or, at the very least, not so deathly serious. But there was none, only the same placid look he had worn for most of diner. “Now,” He added, “please eat. Take advantage of my hospitality.”

“I would hardly call this hospitality.” Will muttered under his breath, but his growling stomach betrayed him, earning a giggle from Abigail, who glanced at Hannibal, his eyes glittering at her over his wine glass. “This is kidnapping.”

To his credit, Hannibal didn’t argue with him, merely cut himself another bite of pork and forked it into his mouth. Will sat still, saying nothing as he poked at his own plate, angry at how delicious it was. When he was finished, he pushed his plate forward, waiting on Hannibal to saw something, probably pretentious or discomforting.

“Chiyoh will show you to your quarters, then.” The Doctor said, and Will hadn’t realized how quickly he had moved, already standing behind him, reaching for his and Abigail’s plates while balancing his own on his outstretched arm.

Will glanced around for a maid or butler or some other figure, but saw nothing. He opened his mouth to ask when a grandfather clock suddenly emerged in the doorway. He looked down at his wine, sad to say he had only taken a couple of sips, and this certainly wasn’t in his imagination. He reached back, taking one of Abigail’s sticky hands in his own as they followed the clock out into the hallway.

If there was one thing he could be relieved about, Chiyoh this apparent clock wasn’t nearly as talkative as Franklyn. Still, the thought that he had known Hannibal Lecter, or at least had seen him, with that defined profile before, those dark eyes, the hint of something strange happening in this house wouldn’t leave him, and the prickle of fear that had run up his spine at the sight of him lingered even as they turned into a new corner of the mansion and Abigail released him to jump onto the couch, sinking into the padding on either side of her.

Although it was hard to tell, he could almost feel Chiyoh staring hard at him as she turned and walked back out, her pendulum entirely stationary. Will swallowed, letting his mind race as he tried to figure them a way out of the situation.


	4. Recognition

He woke with the distinct realization that he had fallen asleep in spite of himself. Abigail had spent a good hour of the night before investigating the finery of their various rooms, opening all the drawers on the hewn mahogany dressers, rummaging through the closets through stacks of old items and the opportunity of finding new ones. Will had watched her, trying to think his way through things, but his weariness from the cold and his trek through the woods and the warm feel of dinner and the slight heaviness of the wine had gone to his head and so he laid, fully dressed in his clothes from the night before, having haphazardly rolled the comforter around himself.

He hadn’t woken of his own volition either. It was Franklyn, whose ceramic was scraping together as he opened the curtains to shower the room with light through the frost-paned windows. “I thought it wasn’t safe to go outside.” Will grumbled from the bed, straightening his glasses on his face. Franklyn started with surprise, nearly losing his grip on the curtain as he swung out.

“Only at night, Mr. Graham. Only at night!” He was clearly a morning lamp, unlike Will who found himself in desperate need of a toothbrush and coffee. But instead he stood, and walked into the adjacent room, Abigail nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s my daughter?” HE turned on Franklyn, who smiled at him, his bulb blinking.

“She wanted to play outside, in the snow. Chiyoh is out there with her. And Tobias.” Franklyn responded. He climbed up into the windowsill. “Here, here, Mr. Graham, you can see her.”

Will walked over, trying to straighten his clothes as best he could, and lifted the window, the air freezing cold as it rushed in the room with such force that Franklyn had to steady himself. Sure enough, Abigail seemed to be constructing an army of small snowpeople while the large clock and what seemed to be some sort of large instrument watched from the sides.

“Abigail!” He yelled, and saw a tiny hand wave back at him.

“Good morning, Papa Will!” She yelled, but continued playing. He shut the window, relieved she was okay.

“The doctor has set out fresh clothes for you, Mr. Graham, in the bathroom. He thought you might want to shower before he makes a late breakfast.”

“You can call me Will, Franklyn.” He was beginning to like little Franklyn in spite of himself, though his natural introversion made the lamp’s constant talking rather draining. “And why do you call Hannibal the Doctor?”

“Because he’s my doctor, Will!” Franklyn answered cheerfully, obviously delighted he could call Wull by his name. He started to move out of the room into what Will assumed was towards the bathroom. “The Doctor has made sure you have all of your amenities, although he mentioned something about getting you a better aftershave than what you were wearing yesterday.”

Will blushed in spite of himself, thinking of the old bottle of cheap Old Spice he kept on the sink. Not that he had ever gotten complaints, or, he told himself, cared about the opinion of his kidnapper.

“Here you are!” Franklyn said brightly, reaching up to pat a heavy wooden door. “And then breakfast in the same dining room as last night when you’re done.”

Will took a step into the nicest bathroom he had ever seen, let alone walked into, and his eyes widened just a bit. Laid out on a couch, positioned away from the shower so as not to get water, was a pair of pants, a pair of socks, and boxers that were almost his size, with a matching belt, and hanging form a hook was an expensive-looking blue button up shirt that had been recently pressed. On the sink was an entire, unopened care kit complete with a toothbrush, a nice razor, shaving cream, deodorant, toothpaste, and a comb. He glanced in the shower to see an array of soaps and shampoos and whatever else he might need, and tracked his eyes back to see a small purple toothbrush held upright in a metal clip that must have belonged to Abigail.

He brushed his teeth carefully, trying his best not to spit in the nice sink. The shower revived him, and under the spray of incredible hot water, he relaxed a bit and was able to think. He tried to riddle through why it was snowing, what had caused Franklyn and Chiyoh and now Tobias to be changed into furniture. It helped to steel his resolve. He needed answers, he needed to escape, and in his mind, both of those things would happen very soon.

As he pulled the clothes on and haphazardly combed his hair, he looked at himself in the mirror. He had to laugh a bit at the face staring back at him, which seemed determined in its ability to get into all sorts of trouble. No wonder Margot and Alana had such a low opinion of his parenting skills. He laughed again, wondering what the self-important Frederick Chilton might see in him beyond the mess of a person he always seemed to be.

The clothes were tailored, but not for him, the measurements loose in some places, but tight in others, a little long but nothing that a bit of rolling couldn’t fix. He sighed, realizing this was probably the nicest he had looked since his father’s funeral, and even that was a close call. He stepped out of the bathroom to the smell of cooking peppers and eggs, and his mouth again watered in spite of itself. He followed the sound of a skillet sizzling, and walked quickly towards it, trying to harden his face for his confrontation.

He stepped in to see Hannibal turned away from him, an apron tied perfectly around his waist, cooking what promised to be some very delicious omelets and a rasher of bacon. “With a house this size, I would think you could afford someone to cook for you.”

If Hannibal was surprised, he didn’t show it, simply cracking an egg in one of his long-fingered hands and adding it to the bowl he was scrambling. He did, however, give a small laugh. “Cooking has always been one of my interests,” He said, turning for a moment to look at Will. “Would you care to sous chef?”

“No.” Will said, and walked over to where he could look Hannibal in the face, who seemed unbothered by his statement. “Why am I here?”

“It is customary for people to eat in the dining room.” Hannibal answered, the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

“No.” Will let out a laugh that he couldn’t help. “Why am I here, in your house? It’s daylight, according to your own rules, you are safe.”

Will watched as Hannibal pressed his lips together, picking up the second pan from the stove in order to fold peppers and sausage into the flat sheet of eggs he was cooking masterfully. Will heard his stomach growling again, wishing that for once in his life, his body might cooperate with him looking intimidating. His appearance, somewhat small, thick curly hair, glasses, did not lend itself to striking fear or even always respect in others. He was no Jack Crawford. He was no Hannibal Lecter.

“Because breakfast is almost ready, and Abigail seems to be enjoying the snow and company of both Chiyoh and Tobias.”

“More patients of yours?” Will spied a French Press, next to it a mug of already made coffee.

“Not Chiyoh, she is an old friend.”

“She is a clock.”

“You continue to point out the physical manifestation of the other residents of my estate, Mr. Graham, as if it makes them lesser. Yet, I heard you having a lively conversation with Franklyn, only this morning.”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me, Doctor?” He could feel the thinly disguised anger in his voice. He had recognized, from many of his agonizing conversations with Dr. Chilton, the same sort of inflated language. But where Chilton would have smirked, and done his odd head turn at Will’s accusation; Hannibal laughed outright.

“An old habit, perhaps. It is not my main intention certainly.” He flipped the omelet into the air, catching it on a gold trimmed plate. “My main goal was to offer you breakfast. Would you like bacon?”

Will blinked at him. “Yes.” He said finally, and Hannibal placed the perfectly cooked strips on his plate. He took it and stepped into the dining room, stabbing it angrily. The coffee was a delicious dark roast, black like Will always drank it, and the omelet was even better than the pork loin had been the night before. That certainly didn’t help.

A few minutes later, his own omelet prepared, Hannibal joined him in the dining room. He was wearing, Will noticed for the first time, an immaculately put together outfit, much in the way of Will’s own. A pair of seersucker pants, a gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms, so as not to get in the food. He suspected that at some point in the day, Hannibal would put on a suit jacket as he had worn at dinner the night before.

“I have not answered your questions.” Hannibal said, after chewing a bite.

“No, you haven’t.” Will had purposefully sat at the window, where he could see Abigail talking animatedly to the instrument that Franklyn had called Tobias. “I had started to think you weren’t going to.”

Hannibal sighed over his food, taking a long drag of coffee but saying nothing. “When you grabbed me last night, you asked me if she sent me. Who is she?”

“That I can answer.” Hannibal said. “Dr. Bedelia du Maurier, a psychiatrist…”

But Will’s reaction was violent, for the first time, a look of surprise coming across Hannibal’s features. “You’re Hannibal Lecter…” He half-whispered.

“I told you this yesterday.” Hannibal’s confusion was clear. But Will’s mind had never been clearer.

He looked down at his food on the table, and felt the urge to vomit. It was suddenly clear to him why Hannibal Lecter had been so familiar. Bedelia du Maurier, the psychiatrist, was a name he knew. She had goen to the newspapers, come to the Bureau almost a year ago, with the name of one of her patients. A man she said had threatened her, was living a life beyond that of an ordinary human.

Jack hadn’t believed her, but that hadn’t kept the newspapers, the internet, even the radio from plastering her story all over the area. If what she said was true, the man sitting in front of Will was a psychopath. A killer. A murderer. A cannibal.

“Mr. Graham,” But his legs were moving even faster than his mind, tearing for the door, for his daughter. “Will!” He heard Hannibal yell. “Stop! This isn’t what you think, you aren’t safe!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little violence in this chapter, fair warning. Thanks for all of the support so far Hope you enjoy this!

The snow was biting into him, his jacket left behind in Hannibal’s mansion. Abigail was heavy, protesting the rough carrying by her father. The yells of Franklyn, of Hannibal, of even Chiyoh who had remained mostly silent were loud enough to split the air around him. But still, he kept running.

He stumbled through thick undergrowth, almost tripping several times, until the voices faded behind him and all that surrounded him were the dark woods that now looked sinister and unfamiliar, the branches dark and twisting. It seemed that the world had overgrown itself here in these woods, twisting into violent shapes around him.

“Papa Will! Put me down!” He did as requested, his arms hurting, and his body wobbling as the adrenaline faded. He wanted nothing more than to collapse to the ground, in the cold, and rest until he felt he could move again, but the fear in his brain and written on Abigail’s normally placid features kept him moving hurriedly. “Why did we have to leave?”

“We weren’t safe.” Will answered, his own mind racing. He could still taste the small bit of food he had eaten, and again felt compelled to expel the contents of his stomach to the forest floor which grew thicker, more intrusive around them. Abigail seemed to realize he wasn’t in the mood to speak, and choose instead to look around them, putting on a brace face that Will was unduly grateful for.

He was trying to figure out his next step. Undoubtedly, Hannibal the Cannibal would be coming for them. When Bedelia had come into their office, she had been practically in hysterics according to Jack, though Will had not met her until much later when she seemed stiff as flint as she sipped on a glass of wine more expensive than Will’s jacket and seemed to be trying to stare through him. The FBI had searched for him, but no one had seen any sign of Hannibal since her accusations, though Bedelia was now seen with greater and greater frequency around the FBI.

Would Will go to Jack now? How would he explain this? Were there missing patient files of Hannibal’s that were now residing in his home as furniture? He couldn’t help letting out a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. He was already seen as unstable, he could imagine trying to tell people of an alleged Cannibal living in the woods with all of his talking furniture and see how many days that landed him in an office rather than the field or even his classroom.

“Did Dr. Hannibal say something to you?” Abigail asked quietly, and Will looked down at her, blinking, and realizing he nearly had to squint to see her fully.

“No.” Will answered. “Dr. Lecter is a very bad man, Abby.”

“He seems so nice!” Abigail protested, her lips quivering. “He made me grapefruit juice, cause I don’t like oranges, Papa Will…”

Will started to protest, but something stopped him as she began to prattle on about her morning. Two things really: one being that the terrain was becoming increasingly unfamiliar, and he was quite sure that this was not the way to get back to their camper. Also because, listening to Abigail, he thought about his own interactions with Hannibal. Nothing in the man’s demeanor, other than the fact that he seemed incredibly pretentious to Will’s taste, was off-putting. Will had been buried deep in the minds of many serial killers, had seen their construction, their designs through their own eyes. There was nothing from Hannibal except a heavy sadness and a polite uncertainty when it came to Will, blending with other, more complex emotions that even he couldn’t separate.

He shook his head, Bedelia had been certain, she had presented evidence! They weren’t safe. He would be damned before Abigail got hurt either, especially now that she was his ward.

“What is that, Papa Will?” The direct address shook him from his thoughts, following Abigail’s small hand. He squinted, seeing the movement in the trees, but barely able to make anything out through the darkness. On instinct, he pulled Abigail around behind him, adrenaline, fueled by fear, once again flooding his system.

“I don’t know.” He started to back them up slowly as a beast emerged from the shadows. Massive, with fur as thick as the trees around them and an incredible set of antlers, larger even than those that Abigail’s father had used on his victims, protruded from its head. But it wasn’t an ordinary deer, those he could handle with their soft eyes and dappled fur. This, this was a monster that even his morbid imagination couldn’t have conjured, a living nightmare with eyes that seemed too human transfixed on Will’s face as he backed slowly up the path.

It huffed out a breath that seemed to freeze still in the cloud it created. He held its gaze as it strode fully from the trees, even larger than he had imagined. “Abigail.” He said finally, desperate to keep his voice level. He could hear the slight quiver in her breathing, either crying or close to it. “Run. Go back the way we came.”

What good it would do, he doubted severely, but maybe he could keep it distracted, hold off the beast and give her a chance to escape. Now was not the time for rationality.

“Papa…”

“Now.” He interrupted her, letting go of her arm, hearing her take off, crunching at the partially frozen overgrowth. The stag came closer, and his brain raced while his body begged to. He would die here, in the woods, with no one to see him, and no one to care until it was far too late. He held up his hands, a gesture of surrender in the chance that whatever unnatural force controlling the animal might take it as the gesture of supplication it was meant. It stopped, but rather than not approach him, he could see the muscles coiling under its fur, bracing itself for the charge.

He glanced away, looking for any way to escape, but the trees that had seemed to offer so many outreaching branches before now all seemed to shrink away from him, just out of reach. He could run, but knew that it would be a futile gesture, he could never move fast enough to escape. And if he ran, the beast would follow him to Abigail whose short legs couldn’t have taken her far. That thought steeled his resolve, and he faced the beast again.

He heard it draw a final breath, and he closed his eyes as a heavy weight crashed into his side.

He let out a long breath, hearing the shaking of a tree only feet away, breathing in a rich, almost familiar scent. “Hannibal?” He asked, opening his eyes as his captor stood, his back to Will as he faced the stag.

“Careful, Will.” Was his only reply as he moved into an odd stance. “Get around behind it, I will take care of it until you can get to safety.” He said calmly. Will did as he was told, stepping around Hannibal as the stag shook itself where it had rammed full force into a tree. It turned its head, but to Will’s horror and Hannibal’s apartment concern, it turned again to Will, letting out harsh breaths in his direction as its eyes narrowed.

Will was petrified, but years of working with the BAU had given him some level of control over himself, and he continued to move in a slowly circle, forcing the animal to constantly turn to keep looking at him. Hannibal was watching him carefully, moving slowly in time with the deer so as not to startle it. To Will, it was an odd dance, not unlike one of his crime scenes in its complexity.

One misstep, a cracking stick and the deer was charging again. He leapt and rolled, tucking his legs to his chest as a hoof missed him by inches. But this time, by the time he was on his feet, it was charging again, and he leapt a second time, avoiding death by an inch as an antler was thrust where his head would have been a second before. “Will!” He heard Hannibal yell, but he was in full protection mode. In a bizarre train of thought, he thought maybe he could wear the beast down and it might give up. It came at him again, again, and again, ignoring Hannibal completely.

He could hear its breath changing, becoming more and more labored with the charges it did, but it was still angry, he could see, and still massive. It came at him again, exhausting itself. He almost smiled as he went to step out of the way and the roots caging them in snagged his foot and instead he was falling, hearing death charge at him full force.

He waited, feeling the fall to the ground as if it weren’t happening in real time but in some dimension where he might have time to correct everything he had done wrong in his life. But reality had never been that kind to Will, or at least, never that he had seen.

And then, he felt the push, felt himself toppling faster, face-first into the roots on the ground as he fell. Followed by a sickening crunch and a pained gasp behind him. He scrambled, rolling over to see Hannibal, the point of an antler jammed into his ribcage. Will watched him, frozen with horror and shock as the beast jerked back, letting the blood flow freely from the wound as Hannibal sank to his knees. He waited on it to charge, but its gaze stayed on Hannibal for only a few moments before it turned, running back into the trees with blood shining off the tip of the undergrowth.

“Will.” He heard Hannibal gasp out from where he laid on his side, blood spreading like a blooming flower over his shirt. Part of Will, the dark part that he tried his best to hide, told him to leave Hannibal there to die. He would, eventually, without medical attention, and the darkness inside of him swirled at the idea of revenge against the man who had taken him and Abigail captured. But the other, larger part of Will came through, seeing in Hannibal what one might see in a helpless bird.

He stood, ignoring the slight of pain from his rough landing, and crouched beside Hannibal, helping his press his own hand down against the wound, trying to stop the blood. Hannibal looked at him, his strange maroon eyes questioning Will’s gesture. “I need your help.” He said quietly. “Out an arm around my shoulders so I can take you back.”

Hannibal, though rapidly losing consciousness, did as he was told, and with less effort than Will might have thought, he hoisted the man into his arms. He had a million questions, most of which revolved around why Hannibal had come after him at all, but they all seemed quite unimportant as he began to make his way back through the woods as quickly as possible, the front of his shirt becoming quickly soaked through with blood and a soft “Thank you, Will.” from a man he realized he hadn’t even begun to understood.


	6. Chapter 6

Will had several long moments of contemplation as he came back into the clearing of the yard, the snow falling thickly, slowing his steps, but showing him the small footprints that proved Abigail had made it back unharmed. Hannibal was becoming an increasingly heavy weight on his arms, the support he had been able to give himself by holding to Will’s neck was gone as he slipped painfully into unconsciousness. Now all of him was dead weight, cradled to Will’s chest like a large, gangly-limbed child, but still he kept walking, his body numb to the cold and the soreness.

He came to the door, walking through the winter gardens that curled with dark green life, and kicked at it hard. “Doctor!” He recognized Franklyn’s voice on the side. “The little girl is back, but Mr. Graham has not returned!”

But as the door opened, Frnaklyn’s frantic speak turned to a squeal of horror. “Doctor Lecter!” He screamed, going into what Will assumed was a full mental breakdown even as Chiyoh took note of the scene waiting at the door and immediately ushered Will inside, unable to help him carry the burden, but able to use her heavy stature to move items out of the way. Will followed, wondering how Hannibal would feel about the thick footprints that trailed behind him as Franklyn followed him in a pure fit.

“Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!” He was screaming, grating on Will’s already thin nerves.

“Franklyn, please stop.” A deep voice almost stopped Will, whose legs were thankfully set on their mission to relieve his body from carrying Hannibal any longer than it had to. “You are worrying Mr. Graham.”

“What if---?” But whatever thought it was, it must have been too horrific for him to fathom, and it broke off into creaking sobs. A long sigh, accentuated with the heavy playing of string instruments, followed the noise, and Will couldn’t help but be relieved when he followed Chiyoh into what must have been Hannibal’s bedroom.

“You can set him there.” Chiyoh said calmly, a nice change of pace from the frantic screaming. “I will get medical supplies.”

Will would have felt almost bad about ruining Hannibal’s incredibly expensive looking sheets, but his arms were ready to rip from his body and the man needed medical attention. He set him down as gently as possible, lifting his blood-stained hands from Will’s shoulders and laying them next to him, looking down at himself for the first time to see the great red smear over the front of his shirt, the dirt and bit of frost and tree that clung to him from their attack. Will was wet, exhausted, and covered in blood that was not his own; if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was back in the field.

Hannibal let out a soft little groan as Will stopped supporting him, his breathing shallower than Will had realized. “We will need to clean the wound first.” Chiyoh startled him, standing with a box of medical supplies, and a small basket of wet cloths. “You will have to do most of it, but I can instruct you.” She added, setting the items down.

“I have some training,” Will said. “Where is Abigail?”

“Franklyn and Tobias are downstairs with her. She has hot chocolate and Tobias was playing her music to get her to sleep when you came in.” Will blinked at the clock face, with ticked away another few seconds in front of him as it blinked in return. He nodded, rolling up his sleeves.

“I’m going to wash my hands, I’ll be right back.” He stepped into Hannibal’s large bathroom, completely stocked with everything anyone could ever use, but no personal affects that he could see other than particular scents of soap. Plain white towels with gold embroidery, matching the rich red walls and gold trim on the curtains. He looked in the mirror at his face, noticing small scratches he hadn’t even felt. He took a washcloth, wiping his face, then scrubbing his arms until the skin was pink with the heat of the water and the richness of the soap. He sighed, wondering what exactly he was even doing, that small dark part of him, full of fear and anger, again telling him to let Hannibal rot in his own misery, that he had done enough by bringing him all the way back here.

But the Will Graham he was glad to say he possessed won out again and he returned to where Chiyoh was doing what she could with her limited mobility to clean at Hannibal’s face. “I thought you were not coming back.”

A glance at her face, nearly five minutes had passed. “I’m here now.” Will said, and without another word, he stepped over to Hannibal, one of the man’s hands grasping at his duvet cover in pain. Will began to unbutton his shirt, undoing each one as quickly as he could, his fingers warmed from the water but still slightly stiff. He opened the fabric, ignoring the cut of Hannibal’s body in favor of the nearly black wound at his rib cage. He took one of the cloths wordlessly from Chiyoh and began to wipe the red that pulsed over Hannibal's abdomen, avoiding the wound to clear the rest of his skin. 

The wound was thankfully shallow, but as Will took a new cloth from the basket to begin clearing it, more than blood came out. “I need more light.” He said as the first cloth quickly became soaked through with a mix of blood and black bile that was seeping from it.

He heard Chiyoh begin to step away on her heavy wooden legs. Hannibal was gasping with pain as another cloth became quickly soaked through. Will wasn’t sure what sort of liquid this was, it looked almost like ink, but when he wasn’t careful and it would touch his skin, it burned like acid. Clearly there was more happening here than he originally thought, some sort of magic, some sort of evil that even he hadn’t encountered inside the minds of murderers.

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, Will. I didn’t mena to make you panic.” If Will wasn’t again covered in blood, still trying to process what all had happened, on little sleep and little food, he would have sighed at Franklyn’s entrance. The little lamp was still crying, his bulb flickering wildly as Chiyoh followed him in. “I wish I wasn’t this neurotic.” He sobbed.

“If you weren’t neurotic, Franklyn,” Will looked down as Hannibal spoke softly. “You would be something much worse.” At that Franklyn’s usual joy seemed to come back to him.

“Doctor Lecter!” He yelled, and came over the bed as fast as his legs would allow him to. “You’re okay!”

“That remains to be seen.” Hannibal said weakly, his voice dripping with tiredness. “I doubt Bedelia has instantly developed compassion for me; though Mr. Graham is doing an excellent job.” Will said nothing, and continued to squeeze and sop at the wound as the black liquid began to thin, and blood replaced it.

“Franklyn, I need you to come over here so I can see.”

“Of course, of course, of course.” Will did sigh that time, and in spite of himself, almost laughed at the little smile Hannibal gave at the noise, though the man’s eyes were still closed. Franklyn did as he was asked however, and climbed up to the desk, leaning over as far as he could so that will could see the inner workings of Hannibal’s wounds.

“I need tweezers.” As he listed the things he needed, Chiyoh gave them to him. He worked methodically, clearing away liquids and fragments from the wound. To his relief, the debris in the wound seemed to have come from the antlers, not form Hannibal’s ribs that didn’t seem to be broken beyond maybe a hairline fracture.

He could tell that Hannibal was trying to control his reactions to Will’s work, his face pulled tight with pain but the noises he made were minimal until finally it seemed like whatever the dark liquid had finally had enough and only blood came through on Hannibal’s stomach. Will took the alcohol, cleaning it to a finally released hiss of pain from Hannibal and a panicked breath from Franklyn. He took the small vile of betadine, careful to try and not let the orange liquid stain his hands too badly and to fight off the infections as best he could.

“Can you sit up?” He said, not really asking, but ready to help with a roll of gauze in his hands. After a moment, Hannibal nodded, blinking once at Will before trying to sit up on his own. “Put your hands on my shoulders.” He said, and Hannibal did, leaning on Will to support himself. For a long moment, as he taped one end of the gauze, and began to roll it slowly, he could feel Hannibal watching his face. But as he continued working, he felt the man grow weaker, leaning forward to press his forehead to Will’s shoulder, his breaths warm but labored with pain and exhaustion.

“Okay.” Will said, after a moment, “All finished. You need to sleep.” Not truly understanding his own actions, Will put his arms around Hannibal’s upper body, helping to lower him back down to the bed in a strange embrace. Chiyoh clopped up beside him with a blanket, warmed and ready to cover Hannibal up who was already beginning to drift off to sleep.

“Thank you, Mr. Graham.” Chiyoh said as Franklyn climbed down and began to make his way towards the kitchen. “You need rest yourself.”

“No.” Will responded and they looked at him in fear, as if worried he might try to run away again. He couldn’t think of anything more absurd, after having been attacked by the stag and with Hannibal so hurt. “I need answers.”

Franklyn let out a shuddering sigh like the very thought upset him, but Chiyoh seemed to agree with Will. “I’m going to check on Abigail and shower, then I need to know what’s going on here.” He said and followed them down the hall, letting out a deep breath to try to calm himself down before all of this got started.

 

 

Some time later, he was clean and warmly dressed. Abigail had gone to bed as the fading light outside proved too much of a temptation with the day she had had. Will, however, was sitting in the living room, with a glass of expensive scotch in his fingers to ward off the permanent cold from outside. He had managed to construct a loose semblance of dinner for himself and Abigial, pancakes and fruit, mostly because he refused to touch the assortment of meats that were packaged in the refrigerator.

 “What questions do you have?” Chiyoh finally asked, standing next to Franklyn who was swinging his ceramic legs from where he sat on a soft chair and little cushion across from Will.

Will couldn’t help but laugh, “What questions?” He finally said, the sarcasm heavy. “Why don’t we start with what the hell is going on here, and go from there?” He took a sip of his drink, letting it burn.

“It is not a nice story,” Chiyoh began, and Franklyn started sobbing again in his high pitched little squeals.

“I had gathered that,” Will said, cutting Franklyn off before he could get on too much of a roll. Chiyoh hesitated, Franklyn sniffled. “Is Hannibal a cannibal?”

“No!” Franklyn sobbed. “The Doctor would never hurt anyone!” He started blubbering, his little bulb flickering like lightning. “He is a good man!”

“Hannibal is not the monster you have been told he is.” Chiyoh said, paying Franklyn a sharp glance. “It is a part of this curse.”

“Curse?” Will said, taking another drink and closing his eyes for a moment. Behind them flashed all of the people he had allowed himself to embody who killed under the guise of religion or spells or curses. He opened them to see them staring.

“Hannibal has been a psychiatrist for a long time, and as with many, he had a psychiatrist of his own.” It was hard, Will supposed, to hear everyone else’s issues, you would need someone to help deal with your own. “He met with Doctor du Maurier weekly, and continued to see his own patients here, with his home serving as a practice.”

Will nodded, not wanting to interrupt. “For years, everything seemed to be fine. But as Hannibal became closer to her, the line between patient and friend began to blur. He was too close, and because of that, he began to truly understand her.”

“Horrible woman!” He heard Franklyn sniffle.

“Hannibal is brilliant, and soon he began to see what she was.”

“Is she the cannibal?” Will asked, interrupting.

“No.” Chiyoh said, clearing her throat, which sounded an awful lot like cleaning out the gears. “As she learned more about Hannibal, she began to turn those things against him. When he told her about his sister, he planted those seeds of doubt that he had been the one to kill her rather than the men he remembers. Every patient Hannibal would be unable to help slowly became his fault, a collection of losses and pains that she turned on him. But Hannibal was able to realize what she was doing, and how. She had others who were not so lucky.”

“Meaning?”

“Hannibal spoke to me often about the strange happenings in Dr. du Maurier’s office, how he could see things that would often make no sense, how those she saw prior to him would leave expressionless or altered from their time with her.” Chiyoh said, stopped by Franklyn’s loud sob. “It was different that therapy. Even unconventional therapy. Hannibal is an unconventional therapist, but these people were no longer themselves.”

“I told him to stop seeing her, but he insisted that he figure out what was happening.” Chiyoh herself seemed to be getting slightly choked up. “He arrived early at her office, intent on confronting her, but instead interrupted a very strange ritual.”

Will decided he probably would need more scotch before the night was over, but stayed engrossed in her story, setting the glass down. “She was with a patient, a man with a nervous disorder and as Hannibal watched, she seemed to be controlling him. Not through hypnotism, but through some sort of magic.”

Will could feel himself leaning forward, doing his best to ignore Franklyn’s irritating flickering. Chiyoh took a deep, unneeded breath. “Hannibal thinks it is his presence that startled her, and something went wrong with the procedure. The man died, choking on his own tongue as Hannibal tried to save him.”

Will sat back, horrified, trying to picture it. It was unfortunately too easy to imagine for him and he shuddered, his mouth dry at the thought. And then again at Hannibal trying desperately to keep a man from dying as his life faded away. It was something Will was familiar with, Abigail’s father had slit her throat as Will shot him, and he had spent so long there with her, bloody hand desperate to hold her throat and keep her alive as his own body convulsed in horror and shock. It was terrible, never something he wanted to think about, and the one dream that wouldn’t go away.”

“She was angry with him, terribly so.” Chiyoh continued. “He had realized her manipulations were to make them vulnerable to her magic, to make them doubt themselves and thus easier to control. He went to call the police, to have the man returned to his family, but he never made it. She took him, brought him here.”

Frnaklyn was sobbing now, openly. “Would you like to tell the rest, Franklyn?” Chiyoh asked, to an incredulous look from Will, but to his surprise, the lamp nodded.

“I was here by accident. My friend Tobias always brings me because I’m nervous about getting lost. We were in the lobby when she came in with him. She said something, yelled terrible things at him, told him what happened to the man.”

“What happened Franklyn?”

“He vanished. Not disappeared,” He shook his head wildly. “Vanished. She got rid of parts of him, made it look like a crime scene you might work on.” He said, his voice becoming angrier. Left evidence that made it look like Dr. Lecter, pointed out all the signs that he might be a cannibal, might have eaten that poor man. Then, she brought him here!”

Franklyn took a few deep breaths, his ceramic scraping terribly together. “She cursed him, this house, us. Tobias and Chiyoh and I were here, we were turned into what we are now to keep us from escaping back into town to say what she had done. She made it almost impossible to find this place so that when the FBI came, they couldn’t find Hannibal to learn the truth. Hannibal wasn’t changed, but she put the curse on him that until it was broken, others would always seen him as guilty. It is the reason you are so afraid of him, the reason you always want to leave this place.” He said, shuddering again.

“What about the monster that attacked us?” Will said.

“Hers! All hers! She put it there to keep him hostage, to make him stay here forever, as if the perception would not be enough! Her goal was to destroy him, not to hill him. That’s why it didn’t kill him today, only you.”

“Why would it try and kill me?” Franklyn shifted uncomfortably at Will’s questions.

“It could be any reason…” That sound vague and unconvincing, but Will let it drop for the moment.

“So, Hannibal did nothing wrong?”

“Hannibal is convinced that he bears guilt for the man’s death and Dr. du Maurier’s fall into darkness. He has not forgiven himself for being unable to save the man, and until he can make things right, I doubt that he will.” Chiyoh said.

“Why did he come after me today?”

“The beast would have killed you.” She admonished. Hannibal would not allow it."

“How can the curse be broken, then?” Will asked, figuring he should at least try and help.

Now both Franklyn and Chiyoh shifted uncomfortably. “Do not worry about it, Mr. Graham, it is none of your concern.”

He didn’t agree with that at all, but said nothing again. “Thank you.” He said, “I’m going to bed.” He rose quickly and perhaps unexpectedly from his seat, the eyes of both furniture pieces following him.

He turned quickly, trying to process everything that had happened. A strong Louisiana upbringing had him as a child believing in certain kinds of magic. But it, like most things, had been pushed out of him by the reality he lived in. If there was magic in this world, he couldn’t tell from the violence and cruelty that he had seen. Perhaps dark magic, but nothing like that.

He was tempted to stop by Hannibal’s room, see how he was doing, and his fingers lingered over the doorknob for a fraction of a second before he thought better of it and went down to his own, dreams filled with images of the Hannibal he could now understand, knocked down by cruelty and trapped in his own mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thought we needed some Will/Hannibal time :)

Will woke of his own accord the next morning, with Abigail still sleeping in the next room over. It was still dark outside, but the glances he made out showed a beautiful world blanketed with white. Why it was always cold, he could only guess as to Bedelia du Maurier’s intention, but for now, it made the world less dark with the moon reflecting easily off the snow, glittering brightly.

Dawn was close, but not quite rising, and he could feel the contentment that had come with his glass of scotch before bed. He made his way downstairs, taking care to step lightly, so as not to wake a still sleeping house. He wasn’t sure of what Chiyoh, Franklyn, and Tobias did as to sleep, but he thought they might, given from the sleep sighs Franklyn had given. The little lamp deserved some rest.

Mostly, of course, he didn’t want to wake Hannibal, who would need to heal and recover. He stepped into the living room, wondering what he could do with his time. He wasn’t one to rise early, and since his phone wasn’t working, he had no books or things to do with his hands, he decided to simply sit on the couch.

“Good morning, Will.” A voice said softly from one of the armchairs. He stepped fully into the living room, where he had sat the night before and heard the tale. He felt guilt at the creeping of fear that came through him at the sight of Hannibal. He breathed out, letting it pass like he did with all of the emotions that weren’t his own, releasing them as if they were simply wind to proverbial sails. “Did you have trouble sleeping?”

“Why won’t you look at me?” He watched Hannibal’s lips tick into a small smile, keeping his eyes on the fire that was warming the room and warding off the chill.

“Chiyoh told me it might make you uncomfortable to meet my eyes.” Hannibal looked at him now, still smiling softly. “It is not my wish to discomfort you, Mr. Graham.”

“Right.” Will said, and sat on the couch, stretching out and looking at Hannibal. “Wouldn’t want that.” Silence hung heavy between them for a moment before Will turned to him again, surprised to see Hannibal watching him. “You should be resting, it isn’t good for your injury.”

“It has mostly healed.” Hannibal replied, though his hand was pressed over the wound. “Though I appreciate the concern.”

“I didn’t say I was concerned,” Will grumbled obstinately. “I said you should be resting.”

“My mistake.” Though Hannibal smirked slightly. Will resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Hannibal, looking instead at dawn trickling in. “I appreciate the thought then, but it has healed for the most part. Bedelia is cruel, but she does not want me to die. She is much more intent on my suffering than my demise.”

“It would be an interesting obituary.” Will laughed, and to his surprise, so did Hannibal. It was a warm, rich laugh and he found himself blushing a bit.

“I am sorry, Will, that you have put in this position. It was not my intention.”

“Doesn’t make up for it.” Will said, and looked over at Hannibal, who was looking back at the fire, guilt on his face.

“I will try to make this right.” He replied softly.

Will said nothing, but sat there for what seemed like a small lifetime. “Thank you for coming after us.”

He didn’t look at Hannibal, though he saw the man’s head swivel in his direction. “I would have died and Abigail would have been alone again.”

“You are not her father.” Hannibal said simply.

“No.” Will said. “I shot her father. Kept him from killing her, but I couldn’t save her mom. I just finalized the adoption a month ago.” He wasn’t used to talking this much, but had accepted the fact that he wasn’t leaving for a while. And Hannibal, despite his posh nature, was easy to talk to.

“A terrible trauma. One she seems to have recovered well from.”

“On the outside. I know she misses them. Even him.” Silence again, though Will could hear other movements in the house. Heavy enough to be Chiyoh or Tobias shuffling around in the early morning.

“Can I show you something?” Hannibal asked, seeming supremely unbothered if Will said no. Will shrugged, and watched as Hannibal stood slowly, exhaling softly in a sound that would have seemed quiet enough not to hear in the daylight. Will followed him, padding softly along the hardwood, cold against his feet.

They went to a corner of the house, previously unexplored by Will and Hannibal extended a hand to push open the heavy wooden door in front of them. He was shocked by the amount of light that filtered in through the magnificent window, catching the dawning of the sun as it illuminated the interior of what looked like the most interesting room Will had ever seen. A harpsichord sat in one corner, plated lightly with gold that glittered like the ice on the windows. The walls weren’t exactly walls beyond that corner, but rather large mahogany bookshelves that were lined with books on every topic that Will could imagine. In the middle were tables, with all sorts of instruments and implements on them.

“You make flies?” Will asked. There was the unmistakable shape of a fly-fishing kit set up on one of the tables.

“I have many hobbies. That one, however, was a gift that I could never manage to quite do correctly.”

Will took a few more steps in, admiring both the view and the library around him. “Abigail would love this. She tells me I don’t have enough books.” Will said, reaching out a hand to run his fingers along the spine of a familiar title.

“She is welcome to it.” Hannibal said, “She is an exceptional child.”

“she is.” Will answered. “Do you have children?” He was struck by the thought of that. To be a child and live in constant fear, thinking your father was a murderer, a cannibal. With a pang, he realized that was Abigail’s reality, and as she got older, it would only become more difficult to handle those issues if he went about it the wrong way.

“None of my own.”

“You have other people’s children?” Will said, and then winced. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about Hannibal, but that joke was definitely in poor taste. To his surprise, Hannibal smiled, shaking his head.

“I had a young sister named Mischa, when I still lived in Lithuania.”

“Had?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Will took a breath, avoiding Hannibal’s eyes, not wanting to feel the grief that would undoubtedly trigger something in him. “What happened?”

“My home was attacked when I was young. I thought that I had gotten myself and Micha to safety. I was wrong, but I was able to eventually escape.”

Will didn’t know what to say, trying to picture Hannibal as a child. It was not an image that lent itself easily to his mind and it made him twinge uncomfortably to think about the life that Hannibal had led. He couldn’t simply ignore the fact that this man was essentially holding him hostage, despite the fact that he was offering them food, and shelter, and this library. It shouldn’t matter that to Will, Hannibal Lecter’s life seemed a series of inevitable sadnesses: losing his sister, then becoming again acquainted with death in his later life, now trapped here in his own guilt while the world turned against him. Unfair, maybe. But so was his treatment of Will and Abigail.

“I’m sorry.” He said finally, feeling himself start to choke on unwelcome empathy. He would almost give anything to be able to feel normally. But then, if he did that, it would mean others would die since he couldn’t do his work. Their lives had to be worth more than his sanity. But perhaps that was the thinking of an insane man, when most of the world existed for self-preservation.

"It's quite alright." Hannibal said, with a soft, but sad smile. “I thought this might be a good place for you to work and think through your plight.” Hannibal said, deftly changing the subject from himself back to the room. “I will leave you to it and see to breakfast.” He turned and started to walk towards.

“Will,” He said, and Will looked up, this time not trying to hide the guilt at the jolt of fear looking at Hannibal. “I truly am sorry.”

Will said nothing, but watched him go, wondering at the inkling of forgiveness that was running through him.  


	8. Chapter 8

Will sat across from Hannibal, watching the man read the book in his lap, in a language that Will recognized as some form of Eastern European, but nothing familiar to Will. He held his own glass of wine between his fingers, sipping lightly at the dark red mixture within. He hadn’t asked Hannibal about the flavor, he hadn’t wanted to seem uneducated even though he considered himself to be much more of a whiskey, bourbon, and scotch connoisseur, but it was delicious, sweeter than most wines he had had. Hannibal seemed to have an endless supply of them in the pantry that connected to his kitchen where he disappeared every night before dinner for a bottle to either cook with or enjoy with the food, and sometimes after dinner for light colored dessert wines.

According to Franklyn, though he had said it in a low voice so Hannibal wouldn’t hear him, this was the happiest Hannibal had been in a very long time. He loved cooking for them, even trying his hand at homemade chicken nuggets that Abigail had requested after the flurry of French cuisine had proven too much for her palette. And so, for the past several days, as the gouged wound in his ribcage healed, Hannibal had taken even more care in his preparations for them, leaving the pair to their own pleasure throughout the large house and yard. Abigail loved the snow, and Will had found her having convinced Chiyoh to help her construct an igloo big enough for at least both her and Will to fit inside, if not all three of the humans in the house along with Franklyn.

Will had spent much of his time in the library, sometimes reading though many of Hannibal’s books seemed more expensive than most of the things in Will’s home and he was loathe to touch them. He instead did more of the kinesthetic things: constructing flies on the very nice station Hannibal had set up that seemed untouched before their arrival, or working on the model of a functional train on one of the tables. It seemed as though it had held someone’s interest at one point, though the engine lacked full construction. There was something relieving at using the tiny tools to spin the gears into place and make them push the small engine that would run the train along the track he was constructing.

Hannibal had not tried to pressure Will into talking with him, only insisting that they all dine together. Will was compelled to ask Abigail if she felt the jolts of fear that he did every time he saw Hannibal, but nothing in her demeanor seemed to indicate that she did. She chatted happily to the man, and Will was starting to find her sitting on a stool in the kitchen, listening to Hannibal talking about how to properly prepare meals or her talking to him about some odd happening at school when Will would come down to dinner. She would kick her feet on the stool as Hannibal chopped expertly, watching her own reflection in the perfect sheen off of his knives, and smile at Will when he would join them, surprisingly not ending their conversations.

Perhaps most surprisingly to himself, Will had taken to joining Hannibal downstairs after Abigail had gone to bed. It had been by chance at first, he had come down after she had fallen asleep simply for the restlessness inside himself. He had found Hannibal, reading through a packet of handwritten notes. Apparently notes on himself by the same woman who had trapped him there. “I am looking for some indicator that may help you.” He had said. Will hadn’t responded except by sitting down on the couch across from him, not saying anything until he had gotten up to go to bed shortly afterwards. The next night, Hannibal had a plate of cookies on the nightstand, and for the last few nights, wine to accompany them.

“Abby likes you.” Tonight, Will was determined to make conversation. He had finally comes to grips with the idea that it would only makes things easier. And he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find Hannibal interesting. Something about that man was starting to possess his imagination, which was taking what he realized was a well needed break from the field of death and murder and pain that he was normally swept in. Was this the ideal circumstance? No. Was this preferable to the camping trip he had planned? No. But it was something.

“She is an exceptional child.” Hannibal answered, looking up at him with a small child. “She speaks of you often, mostly of your incredible patience and lack of social graces.” He added, and it took Will a heartbeat longer than it should have to realize that Hannibal was not being malicious, thus solidifying the man’s (and his daughters) point.

“She was brilliant when I got her, I can’t take credit.” Hannibal smiled at him a bit, and Will was glad it wasn’t patronizing. “Does she talk about her biological parents?”

“Not often.” Hannibal said calmly, “Only In passing. It is remarkable, how children can handle grief.”

“You say that like you have experience.” Will said, and Hannibal was silent for a long moment. “Chiyoh mentioned you had a sister. What happened to her?”

“Her name was Mischa.” Hannibal answered, that part simple enough. Then his voice stalled. “She was four years younger than I was, the perfect companion for late night adventures in the castle I used to live in when it was still assumed that I would grow to inherit it one day.”

Will could picture Hannibal Lecter living in a castle. This house was the closest that he had ever come to a legitimate mansion, and he was certain that being heir to something, even in a country where Will wasn’t familiar with the inheritance traditions, would be worth something. It had probably had even more finery.

“When I was ten years old, it was the height of escalations during the Cold War. Our home was targeted.” Hannibal’s voice trailed off. Will looked at him, and he could feel the thick dread starting to pool in his throat.

“I left with Mischa while my parents remained in the estate. We waited in the barn until I thought they had left.” Hannibal sounded almost wistful, as if recalling some sort of pleasant dream before Will could feel the precipice of terror that was coming. He tried to look away from Hannibal, but was spellbound, feeling himself be wrapped into his story. “They came for us in the night.”

“Children?” Will, having to interrupt before the feelings threatened to choke him.

“I was the heir to the Lordship, they had no intention of letting me live.” Hannibal nodded slowly. “But they found Mischa first. I was trying to get her another blanket.” A silent tear ran down Hannibal’s cheek as he closed his eyes. His thumb spun the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and Will waited.

“I returned to find them with her. She was screaming for help, for me to help her.”

“You were ten.” Will said softly, feeling the guilt mingle with the grief rolling off of Hannibal in almost tangible waves. “It isn’t your fault.”

“I tried to help her.” He said, opening his eyes again to look at Will. “They hadn’t seen me, they were enjoying themselves too much. I took one of the shovels, I knocked them both unconscious. I may have killed them, I didn’t care to check.”

He stopped, and Will waited, The sweet wine had turned to ash in his mouth as he was caught up in the image of a small Hannibal Lecter wielding a shovel against the men who had attacked his sister. Who had killed his family. He could feel unwelcome guilt, all his own now, creep into him at how he had been treating Hannibal as of late.

“I tried to help Mischa. But I was too late.” He shook his head slightly, his free hand constricting into a fist with long -forgotten anger. “She died as I tried to carry her to the village for help.  They sent me to an orphanage where I stayed until my uncle found me. Her body is buried somewhere in Lithuania in an unmarked grave.”

“They didn’t let you stay with her to be buried?”

“They were afraid the men would attack the village as well. I was sent far away.” Hannibal said, finally setting his wine down. The flashes of anger Will had felt were gone, replaced only with a deep sadness and irrevocable guilt that Hannibal still felt.

“Have you gone back?”

“I have retuned only once. I put a gravestone where my sister should have been buried with her name on it, but that was years later. I have not been back since I was sixteen, my uncle could not convince me to stay, though technically the estate is mine.”

“Who oversees it now?”

Hannibal gave a small smile, not from some humor he was having, Will gathered, but for an appreciation of irony. “Until her untimely transformation, Chiyoh has been looking after the property. She is employed by my aunt, the Lady Murasaki, and had come over to try and convince me to return.”

“Oh.” Will said. Hannibal was talking lightly, as if this were all simple, mundane facts and not part of an immensely complicated history that led to this moment, where he was trapped with his patients and Chiyoh and Will and Abigail, believed by the rest of the world to be a monster when it was so obvious that he had dealt with real monsters in his life.

Will stood, and Hannibal looked up at him as he stepped closer, Will able to feel his confusion tampering with the sadness. Will stood in front of his chair, and Hannibal rose with him, obviously thinking that Will now wanted to retire for the evening. But Will stopped him, closing a hand on his sleeve and holding his gaze. “It’s not your fault, Hannibal.”

“I know, Will, it was years…”

“It’s not your fault.” He said again, since the words that Hannibal had spoken were empty. “None of it. Not her death, not the man’s death, not mine and Abigail being trapped here.” He added as an almost afterthought. Hannibal’s eyes widened, the sadness still there, but replaced with something else that even Will couldn’t quite place.

“It’s not your fault.” He reached up a hand, curing it around the jaw of the man he had been holding blame on for so long, realizing that the injury he had suffered for Will was only the surface of all he had been through. That his gentleness with Abigail was a byproduct of having cared for another small girl so long ago. That his politeness towards Will was rooted in genuine fear for his life and not out of some habit. He pushed through all the sadness, the guilt, the grief, and tugged Hannibal close to him, feeling a new crest of elation as he closed their lips together.

 

 

 

“Have you seen Will Graham?” jack Crawford looked up from the file box on his desk, having previously ignored the tapping of a familiar cane until he was directly addressed.

“No I haven’t, Dr. Chilton.” He said, trying his best to seem friendly. He was happy his reputation did not mandate him having to keep up much of a façade. It was generally assumed that if he wasn’t yelling, he was happy with you. “Perhaps Dr. Bloom can help you.”

“I have already asked her.” Chilton said, and sat down across from Jack’s desk without invitation. “Will was supposed to be accompanying me on one of my expositions this week once he returned from his trip. He promised me weeks ago.”

“Did he?” Jack resisted the urge to snort, remembering the exact conversation with Will regarding this particular trip. A lot of huffing, and begging Jack to have him work overtime that day. Or every day. Whatever it would take to get Chilton to leave him alone. The last Jack had heard, he had even been considering having Abigail feign sickness, even considering letting her miss a couple of days of school to ensure a paper trail.

“Yes, and he isn’t one to back out of our commitments.” Chilton said, taking one of Jack’s paperweights in his hands. “Perhaps he’s just nervous about talking to me.”

“Why would that be?” this was too much fun for Jack, who was mostly wondering how far the depth of Frederick’s delusions went.

“My new book deal just got picked up, Agent Crawford! It would be intimidating for someone like Will to speak to a famous book author like myself!”

“Of course.” Jack replied. “My mistake.”

“He will turn up soon, I’m sure. Perhaps he just decided he and the girl needed an extra day of bonding.” Jack gave a noncommittal noise, happy to let Will take off whatever time he needed if he came back happier and healthier. And from the look he caught from Beverly as she passed, clearly having been listening to Chilton, it might  be vaguely entertaining.

His phone rang, and he picked it up, realizing the world was determined not to let him file his paperwork on time. “Agent Crawford, there is a woman up front to see you.”

“Thank you.” He said, hanging up. “I’m sorry to leave you, Dr. Chilton. I have a visitor.”

“I’ll accompany you up front.” He said, standing and straightening his jacket. Jack knew it was better not to argue, and let the incessant clacking of Dr. Chilton’s cane come behind him all the way up front. He stepped in to see a woman, her head turned towards the window. There was something familiar about her, but he saw hundreds of people, some dead, every day of his life.

“Hello,” He said. “I’m Agent Jack Crawford.”

“I know.” The woman turned. Bedelia du Maurier, her face in tears. “Please, Jack, you have to help them. Help me.”

“What’s happened?” Frederick Chilton was not helping.

“He took them.” Jack Crawford, always a skeptic, even had to admit that if this was acting, it was very good acting.

“Who?”

“Your agent. Will Graham and the girl.” She said, and Chilton actually gasped. “Hannibal has them.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reads and reviews, y'all! They keep me going! :)

“What’s wrong, Papa Will? How come you aren’t downstairs talking to Hannibal?” Will felt Abigail climb into the bed next to him, where he had been laying for the better part of three hours staring at the ceiling. He didn’t answer, letting out a long sigh. It was a good question, even though Abigail’s pronunciation of their host’s name sounded more like “Habble” than an actual word.

“He showed me how to make cookies the right way. Did you sugar also comes in brown?” Abigail inquired, laying next to him, mimicking his stance. Will snorted, and he glanced over to see Abigail wrinkling her lips indignantly. “Don’t pretend like you knew, Papa Will, all your cookies come from the wrapped-up cookie sausages.”

Will couldn’t help laughing out loud at that one. She wasn’t wrong, which was possibly the worst part, and he could just imagine Hannibal looking disdainfully as Will unwrapped a tube of Nestle Tollhouse and partially burning them because he never set a timer. Thank god for Winston, who would bark whenever they would start to overcook since he liked to lie by the oven where it was consistently warm.

He missed the dogs: Winston and Buster and the rest, and he was glad he had gotten them kenneled instead of getting Alana to take care of them as he had in the past. They had been gone well past their return date, but he could sink the money of a few extra days in the kennel more than he could deal with losing the dogs or having them eat the entirety of the house.

“Maybe I just wanted to talk to you instead.” Will said finally, answering her first question.

“I don’t believe you, Papa Will.”

“Really?” Will said, equally as indignant now, realizing for a moment that was probably where Abigail had picked it up. “Why is that?”

“I’ve only been up here for fifteen minutes and you haven’t said anything.” She answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Hannibal wants to talk to you. You’re being rude, Papa Will.” She continued.

“What makes you say that?”

“He told me.”

“That I was being rude?” At Will’s words, Abigail let out an exasperated breath, hitting him with the decorative pillow.

“That he wants to talk to you, Papa Will. I don’t think Hannibal has lots of friends.”

“What makes you say that, Abby?” She was quiet for a moment and Will looked at her. She was thinking hard, staring at the ceiling intently as if the answer might lie there.

“He’s like you, Papa Will. He’s nice, but I think he’s shy.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as though it were a bad word. “He needs people friends, Papa Will. You’re a people.”

“Not all people are friends.” He pointed out and she pursed her lips in thought.

“Hannibal wants to be your people friend, Papa Will. He was worried about you after dinner. We were baking cookies and he said how nice you are, even though I told him you get grumpy sometimes.”

“You told him that?” Will felt like sighing.

“It’s true, Papa Will! You remember when you came to the Fall Festival at my school and Randall’s mom tried to talk to you? You were super grumpy!” She answered, then continued as if that weren’t a blow to Will’s ego. “I also told him you were nice and that you took good care of me and know the best stories and like fishing.”

“What did he say?” Will asked, genuinely curious. Since his kiss with Hannibal, and their short, silent meals in-between, he hadn’t said anything to the man. The thought of Hannibal’s sister still weighed heavy on his conscience. 

“He wrinkled his nose when I said you liked fishing. But I think that’s just because he’s European?” Will laughed again, not even bothering to ask how those things were related. “He said he thought you were nice, too, and that he wished you could come down and talk to us.”

Will wished that, too, though he wasn’t sure why exactly. In truth, he didn’t know what to say to the man. How to move forward at all form the other night. A large part of him wanted to pull Hannibal close and kiss him again and again and again until the taste of wine was burned into his mind permanently, and the other part, the dark part where fear still lingered, longed to push him as far away as he could and run with Abigail in tow. He was trying to ignore that part, to get over the fear that he knew was a result of the curse placed on Hannibal. It wasn’t fair to Hannibal, or to Will for that matter. But such was most of his life.

They laid there in silence for a long time. “I heard you and Hannibal talking last night.” Abigail finally said, as if admitting some great travesty. Will’s blood froze for a moment, wondering if she had seen them kiss.

“What did you hear?”

“Hannibal’s baby sister.” Abigail answered, and he looked over to see tears in her ears, running down her cheeks. Apparently, her silence had just been her thinking about these things. “It was so sad, Papa Will. It’s like what happened with my mommy and daddy.”

Will reached a hand over and closed it over hers, trying to comfort her. He was still unsure of how much she remembered, even Dr. Bloom, who had spoken with her in therapy, did not know the extent to which she was aware of what all had happened. Will hadn’t pushed her. She was happy and whole, and he was there for her now.

“I’m glad you were there, Papa Will. That’s too sad to do by yourself.” She said, patting his hand. “You were there for me.” She smiled over at him, her eyes still glittering a bit. Then, her hands were on his shoulders, trying to roll him off the bed. “Go talk to Hannibal!” She half-shouted, laughing gleefully at Will’s huff of protest.

“I’m going!” He finally said, unable to keep himself from laughing as he reached for his glasses. “You’re very pushy.”

“I know.” She said, stretching back out on the bed. “If you see Franklyn, send him up, we’re supposed to play a game before bed!” She yelled after him, and he rolled his eyes as he straightened his clothes on his body, trying to feign the fact he had laid in bed for so long.

 

 

 

Hannibal was standing in the kitchen, wearing a soft-looking blue sweater that Will hadn’t seen on him before. He looked looser, a bit more relaxed.

“You changed clothes.” He said, and Hannibal looked up from the cup of coffee he was pressing out of a contraption that Will would not know how to begin working.

“Abigail and I made cookies. She is an excellent sous chef, but a bit messy.” Hannibal smiled, looking down as his cup filled. “Would you like a cup? It’s decaf.”

“Sure.” Will said, moving to stand on the opposite side of the counter. He waited while Hannibal filled the cup to the brim, shaking his head when the man gestured to cream and sugar, and took the cup between his fingers. “I was instructed by my daughter to come and speak with you.”

“She is very persuasive,” Hannibal agreed, taking his own cup and leading them into the living room where a plate of the fresh cookies he and Abigail had made were sitting, only one of them looking as though someone had broken a bite off of it. He took one, dunking it into his coffee as Hannibal watched with a quizzical look on his face.

“Most people drink coffee for the caffeine.” Will said, before sucking the soaked cookie into his mouth, tasting the still-melted chocolate chips. “I do it for the taste.”

Hannibal laughed, looking down at his cup as if debating trying this new way of eating cookies before deciding better of it. He looked different tonight, hesitant perhaps, but maybe that was just will imposing what he wanted to believe onto the man.

“I’m sorry about not talking to you today.” Will said finally, looking out to the darkness outside, knowing there was snow swirling beyond the door. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“I thought that might be the case.” Hannibal said. “I must say, I wasn’t sure either.”

“I’m sorry I kissed you.” Will looked over at Hannibal, who quickly averted his eyes.

“I can’t say I agree with that sentiment.” Hannibal responded carefully, and Will swallowed nervously. To his surprise, he could make out the faint blush on Hannibal’s cheeks. “I find you very compelling.”

“Oh.” Will said, not knowing quite what else to say to that. There was so much he could respond with, so many things he could say back to Hannibal: how he thought he might be the most interesting person Will had ever met, how the slight fear that ran through him now pushed him closer to Hannibal instead of pulling him away, how the kiss he had the night before had been one of the best, if not the best one of his life. But instead, he said oh, because that is what he did.

“I’m sorry if that was too forward.” Hannibal stood suddenly, as if going to leave Will and all of this behind. But he stopped. “I think that tomorrow is a good chance to try the plan I have concocted. I think you can make it home unharmed.” He was nearly whispering, but Will’s heart leapt at the thought before being tempered by another.

“Hannibal, wait.” He reached out, standing up quickly, and caught the sleeve of the man’s sweater, who turned and looked at him, a strange sadness in his eyes. “What about the curse?”

“That is not for you to worry about, Will.” He said, “I will figure it out.” He stopped, as if he were going to add something else to his sentence but thought better of it. He eyes lingered on Will’s lips for an extra second, but then moved to the stairs. “I think I will retire. Goodnight, Will.”

“Goodnight.” Will said, again at a loss at Hannibal’s sudden turn in behavior. Perhaps he should have said something, should have kissed him again, should have done anything other than nothing, but instead, he stood, his mouth dry from the residue of his coffee. His thoughts turned to the next day. They could go home! Abigail could be home again, and in school where she should be! He was excited, at least, he thought that he was. Why wasn’t he happier?

 

 

He walked upstairs, pausing for a brief moment outside of Hannibal’s door. He closed fingers around the cold metal, and pressed his forehead to the door. He heard Hannibal shuffle around inside, pause as though waiting on Will to come inside. He gave a thought to what might be beyond the door. A chance for something meaningful, maybe. A man who could understand him, who got along with his daughter, who had been nothing but kind to him. He wanted to laugh, that this would be the place he finally found someone he might be interested in. He let go of the handle, walking back to his own room.

Abigail was still lying there, in the same position. He thought she was asleep, taking off his shoes and laying back down on the bed, closing his eyes.

“Papa Will,” she whispered, after he reached to run off the light. “What happened?” He didn’t say anything. He felt her crawl over the mountain of blankets and press a hand to his chest. “It’s okay if you messed it up, Papa Will.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I still love you, even if Hannibal don’t.”

He felt her snuggle into his side and he wrapped an arm around her as she snuggled closer to sleep. He sighed, wondering if she was right. Did Hannibal love him? He sighed and closed his eyes, kissing the top of Abigail’s head.


End file.
